


at moments when the glassy darkness holds

by blackkat



Series: luminous beings are we [10]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27797974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Two weeks after The Event, a private brings Faie a summons from the general.
Relationships: Faie/Agen Kolar
Series: luminous beings are we [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838944
Comments: 21
Kudos: 545





	at moments when the glassy darkness holds

Two weeks after The Event, a private brings Faie a summons from the general.

For a moment, Faie has absolutely no idea what to do, staring at the private with something like dismay bubbling in his chest. He’s been serving with General Kolar for almost four months now, and he’s never gotten called to see the general like some sort of misbehaving shiny. They're on technical leave, even if they're in the middle of nowhere and can't actually _go_ anywhere, so it’s not a tactical meeting, and the general would have commed if it were a real emergency.

A summons by another member of their company is unnerving in a way Faie hates. It feels like the prelude to a dressing-down, or a public punishment, or even just a reprimand in front of the men, and Faie can't stop his mind from racing, trying to calculate the angles. He hasn’t disobeyed orders, hasn’t acted on his own, hasn’t done anything that their general could consider objectionable as far as he’s aware. And—

He’d thought General Kolar didn’t do things like that. Fil had said he didn’t, and Faie had been wary, at first, but he’d thought—

Kriff. He doesn’t even know what this is _about_ , but Faie dismisses the shiny and goes to find his general.

There hasn’t been much happening since The Event, always capitalized when troopers whisper about it, or in the moments Faie's caught Jedi discussing it in low voices. The whole camp feels a little restless, but with glee instead of the discontent that usually comes from having to spend leave on backwater mudball without a single bar in a day’s travel. Then again, Faie supposes, most of the time they don’t have anything else to occupy themselves with, and that’s definitely not the case this time.

Setting his jaw, Faie presses a hand to his chest, trying to remember exactly the feeling of his Human form fading, _shifting_. It was bewildering, all the more for how karking _natural_ it felt. Like kicking off a pair of familiar boots, or pulling on armor that’s perfectly broken in, and Faie won't admit it to anyone, but he’s _kept_ shifting. He has his own tent, and in private it’s _fine_. It doesn’t affect his performance on the battlefield. It doesn’t change his ability to follow orders. If it’s just him alone, getting a feeling for what it’s like to step out of his own form, and then he tucks that all away as soon as he’s back on duty, no one can object. They haven’t gotten orders from the Senate _not_ to change forms. Not yet.

He’s always a good soldier in public. He always follows orders. No matter what. Even when the standing orders conflict with a general’s. That’s a lesson he learned the hard way.

The pace of his heart is unpleasant as he picks his way across the camp, across strangely springy green grass and then up a narrow path of bare dirt that rises steeply. The buttes scattered across the landscape are verdant green, their sides dripping moss and vines, and the number of them makes Faie twitchy. He doesn’t like forests, and these have the feel, from the ground, of vast trunks rising upward. It’s claustrophobic, unpleasant, and all the exposure over the weeks they’ve been camped here has only made it worse. These last two weeks especially.

Still, when he makes the climb from the ground up to the top of the butte, slow with the weight of his armor and _kama_ and deep reluctance, the added visibility makes it just a little bit easier to breathe. It’s good to know that they’ll see any droids coming well before they get here, if the worst happens. There are scouts posted, and from here he can just see the closest one, down at the end of the scattering of buttes and able to see all the way across the plateau they're on. No one’s sneaking up on them here. Not like on the last forest world Faie got stuck on.

It’s something of a surprise to find that he’s the only clone present, though. The top of the butte is grassy, wider than most and scattered with wildflowers, and the general is seated on the very edge of it, legs folded, wind blowing his long hair around him like a veil of black silk.

The first time Faie met him, the first time he saw that hair, he’d thought it was a vanity, a liability, one more way for a Jedi to get themselves killed. But—

Four months with Agen Kolar has shown him that no one lays a hand anywhere near the general if he doesn’t expressly allow it.

The lack of any other people calms Faie's heartrate a little, eases some of his nerves. Not a public dressing-down, at least, and not a public punishment, probably. And there's no firing squad waiting, no trooper in cuffs. Faie lets his fists unclench a little, lets his breath ease out.

This isn't an execution. It’s just him and the general up here.

“Sir,” he says, coming to a halt a few meters behind Agen. “You asked for me?”

Agen tilts his head without looking around. “Would you sit with me, Commander?” he asks, formal despite the question, and Faie pauses, frowns. Agen has never asked for anything like this before; once Faie made it clear that while he respected their working relationship, he wasn’t interested in getting anywhere close to another general, Agen had stopped making overtures, stopped being anything more intrusive than polite.

And—it stung, after a while, to see the rest of his troops warming up to Agen, getting close to him, joking and laughing around him and having him smile back, or tell them stories, but. It’s better this way. Faie follows the command code, the Senate’s orders. He respects the general, but he doesn’t need to be best friends.

He couldn’t ask, even if he did. Because he refused it once, and he hadn’t _known_ that Agen was the type to settle down by a fire and share contraband moonshine with his men, hadn’t realized that Agen wasn’t a general who encouraged backstabbing and used firing squads liberally, and the fact that he has now doesn’t change anything. Because if he _asks_ , and Agen has no interest in dropping the polite distance, if he would _rather_ Faie stays at arm’s length and never returns any of Agen's small gestures—

Faie drags his thoughts back under control, steels himself, steps forward. “Is something wrong, sir?” he asks, even as he sinks down on the grass, still keeping a careful distance between them.

For a long moment, Agen says nothing, and Faie watches him out of the corner of his eye. Even among soldiers trained for stealth and patience, Agen's ability to sit still and silent is almost unnerving. A predator’s patience, Faie's thought more than once, not that he’d ever actually _say_ that. He’s seen Agen's non-reaction to being called the High Council’s attack dog, knows that it hits hard even if he doesn’t show it, and he’s careful with any comparisons he makes for that reason. Not because he _has_ to be, but because Agen is their general. Even if Faie refuses to prioritize his orders above all else, and makes it very clear whose orders he actually follows, he can have respect for the man who leads them.

“General?” he finally asks, a little wary in the stretching silence.

Agen lifts his head, opening his hands, and Faie pauses in surprise at the sight of the general’s disassembled lightsaber lying in his lap. A green kyber crystal lies in the middle of the parts, but Agen is holding another in his hands, a blue one. It gleams in his dark palm, and he holds it for a moment, then breathes out.

One by one, the pieces of his lightsaber whirl up, twist together, slide into place. It only takes a handful of seconds before the completed weapon settles in Agen's grip, white and sleek. He closes his fingers around it, holding onto it tightly, and then deliberately clips it to his belt.

“Easier than reassembling a blaster, like that,” Faie observers carefully, not sure he’s supposed to.

Agen smiles, just faintly, and tips his head. “It is,” he allows, and rises smoothly to his feet. When Faie makes to follow, though, he raises a hand, halting him, and says, “I told you, when you and the other troopers changed, that all Jedi could take dragon form.”

A dark sort of wariness prickles down Faie's spine, and he slowly sinks down, inclines his head. “Yes, sir.”

“However,” Agen says, and Faie's chest clenches tight and cold. He waits to be forbidden from changing, waits for orders he’ll have to deal with relaying, enforcing, when the troops are so happy to have _something_ —

“However,” Agen says calmly, “I never showed you my form.”

Startled, Faie pauses, trying to adjust. “Sir?” he asks carefully, and Agen snorts quietly, amused.

“You’ve been adjusting well,” he says, and it’s the same as all of his praise, blunt and plain and still enough to make Faie's stomach twist in ways that aren’t wholly unpleasant. “And your form keeps growing, yes?”

“Yes,” Faie says, a little roughly, and regardless of Agen's order he rises to his feet, not willing to stay sitting, vulnerable for this conversation. “It’s—about the size of a nexu now.”

Agen inclines his head. “You,” he says. “ _You_ are about the size of a nexu now.” He pauses, fingers touching his lightsaber for a moment, and there's something Faie can't quite read on his face, like grief, but—touched with something else. “Your scales—given the size of your wings, your scales were made for flying.”

It takes a second to realize that Agen is using _scales_ not the way Faie always has, as in something _has_ scales, but like all the Jedi Faie's managed to overhear. _Put on scales, get into my scales, let my scales out_. Like turning into a kriffing _dragon_ is the same as putting on a coat, and when every last karking trooper in the GAR turned into a dragon at the same moment two weeks ago, it was nothing but a bunch of new people finding coats they hadn’t known they owned.

“Flying,” he repeats, belated, and then stops short. _Flying_. As a _dragon_. Without a ship, without a jetpack. Just _him_. It seems…impossible. And­—

Suddenly, Agen wanting to meet all the way up here seems a hell of a lot more foreboding.

“If you're going to toss me off the top of a cliff, there are easier justifications to come up with,” he says, and it’s sharp, furious, too much, but he doesn’t care. No firing squad, but—Agen wants him to _fly_? That’s ridiculous. It’s _absurd_. He’s barely even managed to walk more than a few meters without tripping over his own wings.

Agen frowns, and just for an instant something flickers over his face that stops Faie cold, even in the midst of his anger. Before he can identify it, though, Agen turns his face away, looks out over the field of buttes crossing to the horizon. The wind whirls his long hair up, hiding him even further, and it takes a long moment for him to speak, but when he does, his voice is quiet and steady.

“If you don’t wish to fly, Commander, that’s perfectly fine. I believe you will have more luck in the air than you will on the ground, however, given the shape of your scales. My last padawan was very similar. He took after one of the nightbirds on his home planet, and he was entirely clumsy on the ground but one of the most graceful fliers I've ever seen.”

Faie opens his mouth, closes it. “You had a padawan?” he asks, frowning, because that wasn’t mentioned in the files when he got this assignment. Usually things like that are recorded—

“I did,” Agen says evenly. “Tan was murdered on Geonosis, in the arena.”

Oh.

Before Faie has to think of anything to say in response to that, Agen turns to face him, and his eyes are dark but steady as he meets Faie's gaze. “Commander, I am aware you do not trust me, and that you do not like me. That’s perfectly fine. However, flight will be to your advantage on the battlefield, and if I teach you, you may teach the men as you like. I will not interfere.”

Faie's stomach lurches like he just took a step over the edge of the butte, and something like alarm flares in his chest. Agen thinks Faie hates him. And—Faie _doesn’t_ trust him. He doesn’t trust any Jedi. He _won't_. They give bad orders, get clones killed. Krell proved that. But—

“Sir,” Faie says, a little helpless. _Caught_ , that’s what he’s feeling, and there’s not even a good counter because it’s _true_.

Agen's expression softens faintly, and he takes a step forward. “It truly is fine, Commander,” he says gently, and Faie grimaces, closes his eyes. It’s _not_. Agen is…kind, to the men. He’s never ordered them into unwinnable situations, has never hesitated to mourn those lost. Tries to keep losses as low as possible, even, even when doing so puts him in the line of fire.

Faie wants to trust him. He wants what he hears about Jedi from the other commanders to be true. Wants to _say_ something, but—

Krell had told him, when he was reassigned, that he was in for far worse in the future. And Faie had believed that. Still does, even if the other shoe has yet to drop.

Warm fingers brush his cheek, right beneath the scar that slants along his cheekbone. Faie startles, steps back, and Agen drops his hand, not making any move to follow, even if there’s a faint pull to his mouth that looks like regret.

“Forgive me, Commander,” he says, and steps back towards the center of the butte. “However, even if you do not wish to fly, I would like to show you the method, in case you need it.”

Faie can't quite breathe. There's something knotted up in his chest, tied around a weight that’s the same size and shape as Agen's dark eyes and gentle touch. He wants to—he _wants_ , but—

Agen turns, moves away, and there's nothing Faie can do to call him back, so he stops. Watches as Agen raises his face to the sun, as a ripple like a heat haze takes him over. The whirling strands of black hair shift, fall, spread, and between one moment and the next the Zabrak in the center of the butte is gone. In his place, a massive dragon rises, the deep brown of freshly turned earth. He looks _dangerous_ , heavy, sharp spines standing up across his back, edging his neck and tail and crowning his head. A pair of spiraling black horns crown his head, and he shakes back a thick black mane full of golden feathers as he dips down, leathery wings flaring wide.

 _Oh_ , Faie thinks, dazed, and takes a step back. He’s…huge. Huge and intimidating in a way Faie had almost forgotten not-enemy things could _be_. Not a threat, but—the brain’s acknowledgement that it _could_ be.

“Kriff,” he finally manages, and some leftover bit of madness has him reaching out before he can help himself. Agen's so big that he’s practically falling off the side of the butte, claws dug into the earth to keep him stable, but he ducks his head, holds perfectly still as Faie splays a hand over the startlingly smooth skin, impossibly warm against the cool morning air.

Unable to strangle the urge, Faie looks up, finds huge dark eyes watching him with the same patience that Agen always shows. It makes him swallow, makes him look down at his hand against Agen's narrow, elegant snout. This is…not what he was expecting. Faie's been growing, every time he changes, but he still hadn’t thought a dragon could be so _big_.

“Feathers for decoration?” he asks, rough in his throat, and finally pulls his hand away. “Didn’t realize dragons were vain.”

Agen's wings rustle, and he raises his head. “They were Tan’s,” he says, and Faie feels the kick of regret like a boot to the teeth. Starts to apologize, then stops short, because he doesn’t know what he can say to make that better.

“Oh,” he says, and then swallows. Looks at Agen, then at the edge of the cliff, and—

To a dragon Agen's size, it’s hardly even a jump down. If he can even get a single beat of his wings in before he lands, Faie will be astonished. And that’s a good thing, isn't it? It means that he really does intend to teach Faie how to fly.

Probably, Faie reminds himself. _Probably_.

He breathes in, breathes out. Agen looks so _natural_ in his scales. If someone dropped his dragon form into a lineup, Faie feels like he could pick him out at a glance, even if he’d never seen him before. And he seems to want Faie to be that natural in his scales.

Flying is probably part of that.

“Being able to put on scales is a gift, Commander,” Agen says, and shifts, wings half-opening as he rebalances. He’s careful not to come any closer to Faie than he already is, despite his precarious grip, and Faie grits his teeth against the twist in his chest. “Every clone has the right to experience every part of that gift. That is my only goal. You have my word.”

He’s helping. It rings sincere in Faie's ears, sounds like Agen really does just want to teach him, but he still hesitates. Stares up, for a long moment, and then takes a breath.

The shift is easy, smoother than it seems like it should be. Faie simply bends forward, and before his hands even hit the ground, they're paws, feline and clawed. Golden-brown fur takes the place of skin, and heavy, feathered wings sweep down, out, half-fold awkwardly. Falcon wings, one of his captains said, but they're too large for the long, narrow, leonine body Faie got, cumbersome and unwieldy. He’d thought he was just wrong, badly put together, but—

Even just standing here, he can feel how they want to catch the wind. Like it’s what they're made for.

Agen makes a low, rolling sound, half croon and half purr, and his head dips. He rubs the flat of his head along Faie's side, and the touch _hums_ , makes something in Faie's head go soft and rumbly and _possessive_. He has to fight the urge to press close, to twist himself against Agen's side and settle in, and—it’s not _new_ , precisely. Faie's a clone. He was raised with touch like that, between _vode_ , as a comfort, and now it’s offered by someone who Faie is—

Well.

“Your wings seem as if they’re meant for speed,” Agen says, and a delicate claw-tip touches the edge of one, right where solid golden-brown takes on black barring. “When we return to Coruscant, I will ask Master Garen Muln to teach you diving. He’s the swiftest of the Jedi, and built as you are.”

Diving, Faie thinks, and can't tell if what’s knotted in his chest is dread or anticipation. “I think I have to get in the air first,” he says, more curt than he means to.

Agen doesn’t take offense, just dips his head, then crouches down, wings opening halfway. “That would be the best start,” he agrees. “For the first flight, if you sit on my back, you can see how my wings work. The second time, you may try it yourself if you like.”

On his back. Faie digs his claws into the earth, breathes out. Agen has spines, has teeth and claws and wings he can actually use. One move and he could get rid of Faie easily, end him without having to resort to a firing squad.

But—

Faie stares at him, at that patient expression, at Agen's dark eyes as he waits for Faie's decision. No pushing, no orders, and—

His touch has always been gentle, even when Faie hasn’t wanted it to be. Even when Faie has disobeyed his orders, gone over his head, taken the Senate’s commands over his general’s. Even when Agen has been angry, or hurt, he’s never so much as raised his voice.

Faie can trust him, in this moment, or he can refuse, and just like when he refused Agen's friendship before, he’s absolutely certain that Agen will respect his wishes, step away, and never bring it up again.

But Faie doesn’t actually want that. He’s not sure _what_ he wants, but—not that.

Maybe, Faie thinks, and swallows. Maybe he doesn’t have to trust Agen all the way to just…choose to trust him with this.

“All right,” he says, and Agen dips his head, careful of his horns as he gently presses their cheeks together. Rubs there for a moment, then pulls away, lies down, and folds a wing back as he dips his head.

Faie could tear out his throat right now, even with how small he is, how unsteady. Agen _has_ to know that, but he’s doing it anyway, and Faie—

Faie breathes in, breathes out. He steps forward, and decides that just for now, he’s going to trust.

**Author's Note:**

> The headcanon that Faie was Krell's commander at some point comes from the truly fantastic nadiavandyne and their Faie/Quinlan fic that got stuck in my head and wouldn't let go.


End file.
